Anxiously did Nala point out the way and urge upon Bhima's fair daughter to take refuge in Vidarbha ere he would enter the great forest.
Weighed down by her heavy sorrow, Damayantí made answer with tear-choking voice: “Alas! thy words of counsel cause my heart to break and my limbs to fail me. How can I leave thee all alone in trackless forest when thou hast lost thy kingdom and thy riches, and whilst thou art athirst and tortured by hunger? Rather let me comfort thee, O my husband, when in thy grief, and, famine-stricken as thou now art, thou dost ponder wearily over thy lost happiness, for in truth have wise physicians said that a wife is the only balsam and the only healing herb for her husband's sorrow.”
Said Nala: “Thou hast spoken truly. There is indeed no medicine for a stricken man like to his wife's love. Think not that I desire to part from thee.... Would that I could abandon myself!”
Damayantí wept and said: “If thou wouldst not leave me, why, O king, dost thou make heavier my sorrow by pointing out the way to Vidarbha? Thou art too noble to abandon me, yet thou dost show me the road southward. If it is meet that I should return unto my father, come thou with me and he will bid thee welcome, and we could dwell together happily in his palace.”
Nala made answer sadly: “Ah! never can I return in my shame to that city where I have appeared aforetime in pride and in splendour.”
Then, comforting Damayantí, Nala wandered on with her through the deep forest, and they made one garment serve them both. Greatly they suffered from hunger and from thirst, and when at length they came to a lonely hut, they sat down on the hard ground, nor had they even a mat to rest upon. Damayantí was overcome with weariness, and soon she sank asleep; she lay all naked on that bare floor. But there was no rest for Nala; he thought with pain of his lost kingdom and the friends who had deserted him, and of the weary journey he must make in the midst of the great forest. “Ah! were it better to die now and end all,” he mused, “or to desert her whom I love? She is devoted unto me more deeply than I deserve. Perchance if she were abandoned she would return to Vidarbha. She is unable to endure my sufferings and the constant sorrow which must be mine.”
Long he pondered thus, until Kali swayed him to desert his faithful wife. So he severed her garment and used half of it. He turned away from the fair princess as she lay fast asleep.
Repenting in his heart, Nala returned speedily and gazed upon fair Damayantí with pity and with love. He wept bitterly, saying: “Ah! thou dost sleep on the bare hard ground whom neither sun nor storm hath ever used roughly. O my loved one, thou hast ever awakened to smile. How wilt thou fare when thou dost discover that thy lord hath abandoned thee in the midst of the perilous forest?... May sun and wind and the spirits of the wood protect thee, and may thou be shielded ever by thine own great virtue!”
Then the distracted rajah, prompted by Kali again, hastened away; but his heart was torn by his love, which drew him back.... So time and again he came and went, like to a swing, backward and forward, until in the end the evil spirit conquered him, and he departed from Damayantí, who moaned fitfully in her sleep; and he plunged into the depths of the forest.
Ere long the fair princess awoke, and when she perceived that she was all alone she uttered a piteous scream and cried out: “Oh! where art thou, my king, my lord, my sole protector?... I am lost; oh! I am undone. I am helpless and alone in the perilous wood.... Ah! now thou art but deceiving me. Do not mock me, my lord. Art thou hidden there among the bushes? Oh, speak!... Why dost thou not make answer?... I do not sorrow for myself only. I cannot well endure that thou shouldst be alone, that thou shouldst thirst and be anhungered and very weary, and without me to give thee comfort....”